Page 88 of You Spin Me

She bites her lip. I don’t want to push too hard. Plus, if I wait till tomorrow, my brother can help me install it. “No rush. It’ll be there Tuesday night if you want to come over.”

After checking the hall in both directions, she goes on tiptoe to give me a lingering kiss. “It’s a date,” she whispers.

Sliding my hands into her curls, I pull her lips to mine and give it everything I’ve got. After I release her, she executes a complicated set of twirls down the hall. Before stepping through the exit door, she blows me a kiss.

I pretend to catch it, but I know I’m the one who’s caught… in a web of this girl’s charms.

Wednesday morning—well,what counts for morning for me; it might be past noon—I wake up to a most beautiful sight: Jessica doing ballet exercises.

When she found the barre here last night, she was so excited she called me at the station and about burst my eardrums. I tried not to wake her up when I got home, but she rolled over and greeted me in the best way possible: arms wide and naked. Except for her bra. I think she has some sort of hang-up about her breasts that she doesn’t seem ready to talk about. I’m doing my best to pretend it isn’t a big deal, even as I wish I could show her how much I love their soft curves.

Of course, I haven’t taken my shirt off, either, so I can hardly complain.

Right now she’s got most of her clothes back on, but watching her muscles work is mesmerizing. She’d be an amazing boxer; she’s got so much control. I could watch her point and flex her little feet and sweep her arms in graceful arcs all day long.

Even as I relish the sight, worry simmers in the back of my heart. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this beautiful bird entertained inside the cage I’ve erected for myself.

I’ve been captivated by her since the moment I first heard her voice on the phone. I’ve let her see more of me than anybody, even my family. They know what I’ve been through physically, were there for the bullying and the loneliness. Thing is, I think they still see the broken little kid me.

Jess knows the here-and-now me. She’s peeled back layer after layer and hasn’t yet run screaming. Instead, she makes me laugh with her goofy voices as she shares stories from her day. Every time her eyes spill over, her tears wash away some of my grief. And only buried deep inside her have I felt a release that has my soul singing.

My thoughts are interrupted by her musical voice calling across the open space of the loft. “I’m almost done, but I’m sweaty.”

“I know a way to make you even sweatier.”

She cocks her head to the side, an impish grin on her face. “I know you do. And I’m looking forward to that. Right after”—she kicks her leg out sharply—“I’m done with this.”

By the time she pulls off her ballet slippers and does a few flying leaps across the room, I’m wide awake and readier than ready for her. Leg warmers and leotard and sweatshirt and tights go flying. She’s still in her bra and underwear, but when I try to pull her on top of me, she resists, reaching for the hem of my shirt. “Can I?”

“Are you sure you want to?” is my immediate response, but then I make myself meet her gaze. As they have every step of the way, her eyes tell me she’s curious, not judgmental.

She still hasn’t seen the worst of my scars—the ones that spread across the left side of my torso and back. Seeing and touching the minor scarring of the donor sites on my butt and thighs had her shaking, her empathy runs so deep. Seeing the swaths of skin I gave up on might be too much.

“Cal.” Kneeling by the bed, her eyes find mine. “I want to be able to love all of you. I can’t do that if I can’t be here with all of you.”

It’s the L-word that does it. Trusting her the way I want her to trust me, I draw my shirt over my head and chuck it to the floor. Her eyes sweep over my shoulder and down my side, then she crawls behind me. For what seems an eternity, all I can hear and feel is my own heartbeat. When her arms encircle me from behind to squeeze me tight, I can’t help it, I shudder with relief. With her cheek pressed to my left shoulder blade, I feel loved.

After she whispers, “Thank you” in my ear, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then I turn around and do my best to show her how muchIloveher.

JESS

Sex with Cal makes me experience my body in a way that I truly didn’t know was possible. Guys have always appreciated my looks way more than I have, from the junior high boys who literally drooled over my brand new boobs to that asshole Charles who acted like he was starring in a porn film as he praised my “tight pussy” even as he wanted me to “suck his cock with my pouty lips.” I still can’t believe I even let that guy touch me.

The only way I can deal with the fact that I slept with guys like him is to file them away in a drawer that’s labeled… I don’t know, Copulation Because I Was Bored. Or maybe Fucking Because I Didn’t Know Any Better.

I’ve always thought “making love” was a silly term. In my experience, sex was about giving a guy who’d bought me dinner a polite thank you. If I used my imagination and thought about Patrick Swayze or Richard Gere, I might have an orgasm, but I usually turned in a mediocre performance that got good reviews as long as the guy got off.

Cal has educated me. He claims that he doesn’t have a lot of experience with sex, but from where I’m sitting, that doesn’t matter. With his eyes, his touch, his words, he worships every bit of me, from my gnarly feet to my crazy hair.

Except for my breasts, which is worrisome. On the phone, way back in the early days, he said he was a breast man, but he hasn’t demanded that I take off my bra like other guys have. He’s touched them and kissed them through the fabric, but moves on quickly. Is that because he finds them as repulsive as I do?

The need to get moving pushes my concerns aside. I wish I could be the kind of girl that could lie around all day, but after a barre workout and sex, I need to drink water and I need to pee. Lately, I can’t seem to do enough of either. I should pick up some cranberry juice because I really don’t have time to deal with a UTI right now.

Leaning over to give him a quick kiss, I whisper, “I’ll be right back. Can I get you anything?”

“More time with you,” he murmurs.

A few moments later, I’m back with water for both of us. After I set the glasses on the bedside table, he tries to pull me back into bed, but I dig in my heels. “If I could fit more hours in the day, I would definitely spend them next to you.”

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